Author's Note

Numbers in [brackets] denote footnotes, which you can find at the bottom of the chapter.

Nothing from the wizarding world of Harry Potter is mine.

~ Refictionista, September 13, 2016

§ Chapter I §
The Slave and the Singing Sea

Vouliagmeni Beach, near the deme[1] of Aixōnídes Halaí

For as long as she could remember, Hermione of Gkrantes[2] loved the sea. The tides and crashing waves were like music to her ears. Perhaps so much so that sometimes when swimming she could even claim to hear singing under the crystal blue waters.

Her favorite chore was to go to Vouliagmeni Beach to collect seashells for her mistress. She would sing as she carefully chose only the best shells for Lady Flavia Metelli[3] to use in her 'rustic' decorating.

Being loved by her mistress since her birth had worked well for Hermione. Her mother, Helena of Gkrantes, was merely a cook in the household. Had Hermione not been such an extraordinarily beautiful infant, she would not have risen to the highly honored station of ancilla, or handmaid. At the tender age of fourteen, she was already Flavia's right hand, ranking her as the second highest position amongst the slaves in the household.

The lady loved Hermione as her own daughter and would have freed the young girl from slavery had her husband allowed it. Instead, Hermione's mistress would frequently ask the young girl to go to the white sand beaches to collect shells, as she knew the task was one Hermione looked forward to doing.

It was during one such trip Hermione, her basket of shells already full, was twirling barefoot in the wet sand and singing. The mist from the sea caused her already bushy hair to frizz even more than usual, but she didn't mind. She sang:

Ὅσον ζῇς φαίνου
While you live, shine
μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ
have no grief at all
πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν
life exists only for a short while
τὸ τέλος ὁ χρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.
and time demands an end.[4]

She stopped singing and dancing when she heard the distant sound of her mother calling her name. Turning, she saw Helena running across the beach with her stola's fabric flapping across her legs. When Helena reached Hermione, the older woman held out a hand to steady herself against her daughter's shoulder.

"You must hurry," her mother gasped, turning Hermione around by the shoulders towards the way she had come. "Quickly, grab your sandals and give me your basket. Our mistress calls for you."

Lady Flavia's personal cubiculum,[5] the Falco villa

Hermione ran up the marble steps of the villa, vainly trying to shake the sand off her sandals with each step. Not watching where she was going as she reached the vestibulum, she collided with a large immovable wall.

"What's this?" a rough voice asked.

It seemed the wall could speak. Hermione gulped and saw a giant of a man; his forearms were even the size of her waist. He had a large round face made comical by a beard with wild tangled hair that was thick and braided.[6]

Hermione felt intimidated, but then became encouraged by the twinkle in the huge man's eyes. "My apologies, Rubeus of Hagia Triada."[7]

"I haven't introduced meself. How yeh know me name?" he asked curiously.

Hermione pointed to a brown leather satchel hanging in front of his tunic across his chest with his name branded on the side.

"Yeh can read?" The surprise in his voice was evident.

"Yes, my mistress taught me," said Hermione with a hint of pride.

"A, ah, rather unusual skill for a slave girl," Rubeus said. He raised one bushy eyebrow, making it look like a caterpillar arching its back.

"I guess I'm an unusual slave," she quipped back at him.

"Well," he chuckled, "I certainly hope so. Go on now. Yer mistress and mine are waiting for yeh inside." Rubeus gave her a bow and did his best to give her room to pass by him in the narrow entrance hall.

Hermione headed through the atrium to one of the cubicula set aside for her mistress's own particular use. Noticing the other woman the giant had mentioned in there as well, she slowed and walked in sedately, giving a polite curtsey and bowing her head as her mistress had once taught her.

"You called, Mistress."

"Hermione," said an elderly and pleasantly plump woman with a smile. "Please, come join us."

Reclining on the klinē next to her mistress was a tall, black-haired woman in an emerald green chiton. Compared to the genial Lady Flavia, the woman had a very stern face.[8]

"Minerva, this is the slave girl you have inquired about, my ancilla and the daughter of our cook. She is called Hermione."

"Come here, child," said Minerva. Hermione stepped forward obediently. "Open your mouth, let me see your teeth." Afraid of this request, Hermione looked to Flavia, who was smiling encouragingly.

Leaning forward timidly and opening her mouth wide like a horse being inspected, she stood perfectly still and tried not to show any fear.

"Her face glows with the warmth of exercise, and her teeth are good. She appears to be in satisfactory health."

"And so pretty, wouldn't you agree?" said Flavia, her smile now nearly beaming with pride.

"She will mature into a beautiful woman, yes. I would even say she carries Circe's blood in her veins; however, it is mainly her intelligence and gravitas[9] which most interest me. May I question her privately?"

"Oh, of course you may, Minerva!" Flavia rose from her klinē and gently grasped Hermione by the shoulders. "My sweet girl, this is such a wonderful opportunity for you. I'm as proud as if you were my own daughter." She gave Hermione a motherly kiss on the forehead and left the room.

Hermione turned and stared at the prim looking woman now sitting straight as an arrow. She watched as the older woman leaned over gracefully and pulled out an oddly carved stick, swishing it through the air with an oddly complicated little movement.

"Muffliato," Minerva whispered, aiming the stick at the room's arched entrance. There was a burst of air shimmering in that direction and then something sounding like bubbles popping.

"Now, we can begin." She pocketed the stick. "You have questions, I presume."

"I wouldn't know where to begin, my lady," said Hermione.

Minerva smiled, which softened her stern expression beyond measure. "It takes a truly wise person to recognize their lack of knowledge." She stood and paced the room as if she were a philosopher giving a lecture. "My name is Minerva Athena Megalonisi. You may call me Madam Minerva. I teach at a school for particularly gifted students. If I were to tell you I think you might qualify, what would you say?"

"I could say it sounds interesting and would want to know why you think I qualify, but on second thought I will say I serve at the whim of my master and mistress."

The older woman stopped and smirked. "Clever girl."

She once more took out the stick from within the folds of her chiton and tapped it against the side of her chin. "Tell me, clever girl, did you ever make anything happen? Anything you couldn't explain when you were angry or scared?"

"No," said Hermione quickly.

Minerva's stern look reappeared. "I would appreciate honesty, Hermione."

"Madam Minerva, I am being honest!" claimed Hermione. "But, well..."

"Yes?"

"I sometimes know things, things I don't know how I know, yet I do, and then mother says it is my imagination, but sometimes I hear singing—singing from the sea. And—"

"Stop. When do you hear this singing?"

Hermione fiddled with her hands and took a deep breath, as if preparing to hear the older woman call her a foolish little girl. "When I'm swimming. Eerie voices, singing under the water. No one else seems to hear them."

"Ah, what you hear is most likely the merfolk. No one else would hear them, except people like us."

"People like us?"

"Mages, Hermione. You're a mage."

"I'm a what?" Hermione blinked several times. "A mage?" she asked.

"Yes. A witch, to be more precise." She looked at Hermione, who was still blinking. "An opportunity has arisen for you, one we can act on in a few years, but you would need to be trained first."

"Trained as a mage?"

"Yes, at the school I mentioned, Hogyrotoli School of Thaumaturge and Sorcery. It is on an island not too far from here."

"I don't know what the Lady Flavia said to you, but her husband has never agreed to free me before. He believes a woman's only place is with a husband or a master—we only cause problems otherwise. What would or even could change the master's mind this time?"

"This wand and I have our ways," said Minerva, tapping the stick across her palm.

Hermione stared, wide eyed.

§

Footnotes:

[1] In Ancient Greece, a deme or demos (Greek: δῆμος) was a suburb of Athens or a subdivision of Attica, the region of Greece surrounding Athens.

[2] In this fic, slaves are differentiated by free persons by stating their hometowns instead of surnames. This convention is not historically accurate.

[3] A Roman woman kept her own family name after she married, though she might be identified in relation to her husband: the name Flavia Metelli, "Flavia [wife] of Metellus," preserves the birth name Flavia and adds her husband's name to specify which Flavia. I've omitted using Flavia's family name to prevent confusion.

[4] This song is the Seikilos epitaph, the oldest surviving complete musical composition, including musical notation, from anywhere in the world.

[5] Cubicula were small rooms used for a number of different purposes; on the upper story and in the interior of the house they often functioned as bedrooms, while the small rooms off the atrium (on the lower story) may have been used for private meetings, libraries, etc.

[6] Paraphrased from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Chapter 4

[7] Hagia Triada was a town in Ancient Greece on the island of Crete. Its modern name is Ayias Triadha.

[8] Paraphrased from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Chapter 7

[9] Gravitas was one of the Roman virtues. It may be translated variously as weight, seriousness and dignity, also importance, and connotes a certain substance or depth of personality.